Lore
by theinsane
Summary: Drabble 5. Death: Today, Erol is alive. Today, Erol sinned. Today, Erol isn't dead. But, he's not quite alive, either. [Redone.]
1. Lore Spelled Backwards

Lore Spelled Backwards

Summary: It is widely known that demons don't exist. Hell is for the unholy, the sinned; Evil goes in, nothing comes out. _Whoever said this has quite obviously never heard of Erol._

Disclaimer: I don't own J & D

A.N: I'm adding on to this fic because a) I'm sure I'm the only person who has noticed this, and I want to show off, and b) because I feel like it, so nyaah!

It is widely known that demons don't exist.

* * *

There _are_ many monstrous beings in this world, from the varying species of the vile Metal Heads, to the ruthless, newly discovered Dark Makers. They, despite their ghastly appearance, are not beasts from the pits of Hell. 

For one, no such beasts can escape the prison of the underworld, and try as they might, the sinners, which are _elves_, not demons, can't get out. The Great and Grand Precursors will quickly vanquish these unholy spirits, and since there are no demons, there is _nothing _to be worried of.

Demons don't exist.

Mortals do.

There is nothing more evil, and disgusting as watching children of our gods turn corrupted, shedding their innocent, sweet lives in search of war, and weapons, and _pleasure_. There is nothing more corrupted than these despicable elves, not even the bloodthirsty Metal Heads, as evil is in the eye of the trespasser.

Metal Heads cannot help being evil; they are born hideous, born to kill, to destroy, to _live_—but as monsters. Those damned elves, however, can, born to love everything, dying hating their Creators. The Dark Makers cannot help being evil either: In fact, they were once Holy, and their creations tainted them—again, and again, and again—until they could no longer resemble anything close to the holy gods they once were.

Demons are nothing but lore. They do not exist, but rather, they are mere _stories_, used to prevent further corruption of the Elvin population. For example, if you sin, you will become twisted and hideous, and so unrecognizable and ugly that Death Himself would not accept you into His calming embrace. If you kill, you _will_ be thrown into the pits of Hell, forced into wandering the immortal plane in Eternal Anguish, furious burns horribly disfiguring your body. There is nothing more sacred to elves than beauty, and demons are _not _beautiful.

Then there's Erol.

Erol isn't lore; he breathes, he exists, he kills. In fact, Erol is the opposite of Lore: he's real, for one.

Some people are even _foolish_ enough to call him a demon, though out of them all, he is most likely the most despicable of them all. Demons don't exist. They are lore. They are ugly, evil, sadistic, and overall _unholy_.

Demons don't exist.

_But **EROL **is the opposite of **LORE. **He is real. He is sadistic, evil, but he is most certainly not ugly._

Demons don't exist, but we'll call Erol that until we can come up with something else.

* * *

So did you notice what I noticed? 

Tell me what you think: Review please!


	2. Red

Red

The color of love is red: Red for the passion, red for the blood pumping through your excited heart, red for the blood flowing through your fluttering stomach. _But there's a thin line between love and hate, and it just so happens that the blood in your heart is the exact same color as the blood pooling around you._

I don't own.

* * *

Mother had another child, but Erol really sees no point. Look how hard she had to work just to raise one child, but now she's raising another? It's just so _stupid, _because now he's going to have to get a job, and so now he has to say bye-bye to his childhood. 

"Isn't he _cute _Erol?"

And to top it off, it was really, _really _ugly. It looked nothing like _him_, he could certainly tell you that. Its body was scrawny, but the head was big, and it was _constantly _crying. The veins were easily visible along the skull, and its face was continuously scrunched up, the fat that wasn't present folding into layers.

It was _not _cute.

"Well?"

Erol sighed, deciding to just play along with it.

"Yes mother. I—_he_ is cute." He drawled, fingering his toy gun.

And just like that, his mother fell for it. She believed of the blood finally pumping his frozen heart, the adoration that _must_ be shining in his gold eyes like the green glowing in hers. She thought of the red, the color, _his _color. Red for his hair, red for his favorite color, red for the passion, red for the blood pumping his excited heart, red for the blood flowing through his fluttering stomach.

Erol loves his baby brother, and she firmly believes that love will never _ever_ turn into hatred.

And the baby opened his dark blue eyes.

_But there's a thin line between love and hate, and it just so happens that the blood in your heart is the exact same color as the blood pooling around you.

* * *

_

Okay, definitely not as drabblish as the others, and not as long, but oh fricking well. Call it an early Valentine's Day present.

Review, and I'll tell you where this came from. It's actually kind of interesting.

For once.

theinsane


	3. A Tribute to Erol

A Tribute to Erol, Part One

Summary: Because we _all _know he's messed up, don't we?

I don't own Jak and Daxter…

AN: Okay, originally this was going to be 50 themes, but I am impatient and I think that I have mentioned everything that's notable about Erol, haven't I? If there is anything else you would like to add, please contact me and I will try (I repeat, _try_) to make a theme out of it. It will be added immediately to this fic, with mentions at the end (which reminds me, thanks Rin-neechan for themes #4 and #6).

#8 and #9 (my favorites) are all me, but they _are_ one sentence; the italics make them longer, and the parenthesis are needed to emphasize points.

* * *

**#1: A is for Assassin**

Sometimes the Baron felt he was being watched (_The shadows were alive_), being carefully scrutinized and calculated (_The demon was hiding_), and when he finally cared enough to look (_'What was that, what was that, what was that!?_), all he saw was his loyal commander by his side (_'Great Precursors, it's after **me**!'_).

**#2: B is for Breaking**

"I'm sure," he drawled, eyes deviously glinting and smile bittersweet, "That I will have a glorious time with my subordinates, Lieutenant Torn," his grin then stretched he watched his higher up glare suspiciously before walking out of the room, "We will have the most fun time utterly destroying any resemblance of humanity, won't we boys?" he added, laughing when he got shaky salutes in return.

**#3: C is for Cannibal**

He licked the satin red liquid off his fingers, professionally deciding which portion of his meal to have next, "Are you sure you don't want to have dinner with me, Erol?" he smiled to himself, picking the arteries and veins away from the organ, "I'm sorry Keira, but I have already have a promised dinner with a subordinate of mine," he tore into the lungs, swallowing before adding, "Maybe some other time Keira."

**#4: D is for Death**

Erol is a favorite of his; he kills, he destroy, he crushes all the oppose him, and coincidentally, Death really likes to see a creation of his enemy cause blood to be shed, wars to conceive, and destroys others who Live also.

**#5: E is for Eco**

The eco burned, and it seared, and it completely and _utterly _destroyed any resemblance of humanity that was left his heart; but then he remembered that he didn't have a heart in the first place and he found that knowledge was power; and power can't corrupt the already tarnished but it was fun to play with anyways.

**#6: F is for Fatal**

Keira giggled, entranced, "Of course I'll be your mechanic, Erol," and he merely smirks because he knows something she doesn't; whether he hates you or uses you, you're going to die in the end, and he's the one who will have that knife slitting your pretty little neck.

**#8: H is for Horror**

_(It viciously tore the flesh from bone, hanging the already rotting meat tauntingly in front of its former owner; "I, if I may sir, suggest a raid. Leave none alive, of course.") _Manipulating and killing, _("Scream, scream, scream, until your throat raw and bleeding! No one to hear but me…") _blood spilling out discreetly upon the floor, and it was a wonder who would be next _(She rocked back and forth upon the floor, tears streaming down her face. "I've come for you, dead Keira," and she screamed)_ but seeing as it was Erol, they all would have to die anyways; one, by one, by one _(But nobody was there, and Erol was dead, and—**and…Erol** **will…kill...her!**)_.

**#9: I is for Insanity**

The voices echoed in his head, commenting, picking apart every single thought, action, and choice he made, until—_"You let him escape you idiotic buffoon." "You let him **live**, you pathetic excuse for filth!"_—until he realized that he was the cause of his own torment, and then, _then_—_ "Baron, my **liege**," he crowed, "I would suggest that you follow my lead…because…I'll…kill you!" _Then he realized that he was daydreaming in the middle of a Krimson Guard meeting, and he was in the mood for burning _(the light of the flames echoed throughout the collapsing building, dancing shadows not failing to hide the identity of the cackling perpetrator) _and gore _('Something,' he realized, pausing with his brush up in the air, 'That is worth the breath that I have stolen,' To which he laughs)_, and that the screaming was his as he slits the throat of everyone undeserving of being in his presence; namely, everyone _(and as he lies in his bed at night he can't help but wonder if the world he lived in was all a product of the Precursor's insanity; laughing, he walks into the field full of corpses that his closet withheld)_.

**#11: K is for Krimson**

Erol licked his lips as the _(metallic, bittersweet, with that slight touch of fear…) _liquid splattered on his face, and motioned for the other _(killers, murderers, and slaughterers, spilling that sugary, sour fluid out of others bodies for a living, bullets ripping through flesh, tendon, and bone, blood seared the moment the projectile tore through—)_ Guards to follow, idly stepping back to look over his work once more _(—but he preferred to use knives, as they spilled the Krimson oh so much easier)_.

**#13: M is for Murder**

He only did it so as to see the crimson soaking the dirtied streets, to feel oozing flesh being torn from broken bones, to hear the screams of torment; the fact that he got away with murder was just an added bonus.

**#14: P is for Perfection**

His porcelain skin reflected in the sunlight, red hair blazing as an even deeper red running through the strands of crimson, gold eyes impervious to the influence that is reality; and all were bowed down to this god of chaos, worshipping his perfection and sacrificing crimson lives to please his Wickedness.

**#15: S is for Sadistic**

_The child's laugh hauntingly echoed, golden eyes coldly glinting into the unresponsive ones below him, "See mother? I told you running with scissors is not, in fact, dangerous," he picked the pair of utensils from her stomach, grin stretching as an intestine obediently followed it,_ "In fact, I believe that I, above all people, deserve to run with scissors the most, don't I mother dearest?" He commented, Krimson Guards lying on the ground, knives oozing thick red blood; or maybe it was the bodies, but Commander Erol simply didn't care as he watched the flames licked the horizon.

**Cry**

And that's what you should do, cry, I mean; because when he's after you, you are _dead_.


	4. Curiosity Killed the Mom

Curiosity

Summary: Curiosity killed the mom. Or at least wounded her, we don't really know, nor do we care.

I totally ripped this off of my own story, but oh freakin' well. I think it fits as a drabble too.

* * *

_The golden-eyed child rolled his hands into fists, refusing to lie down and sleep. His mother tried to convince him to go to sleep, soothing voice trying, and failing, to put him to sleep. She sighed, lightly coughing into her hand into preparation for **something**._

"_**Rock-a-by baby, on the treetop**_

_**When the wind blows the cradle will rock**_

_**If the bow breaks the cradle will fall,**_

_**And down will come baby, cradle and all."**_

_Yet her voice failed to get the boy to sleep, eyes only drooping into an icy glare, "I do not want to sleep mother."_

_Hearing a low chuckle, his head snapped to the door, followed by the fatigued red haired woman's. She smiled, tired, "Welcome home honey," she said, before once again trying to get her son to sleep._

"_Did you sing that song?" The man at the door asked. It was obvious that this was the child's father; his gold eyes matched that of his son's, despite it being a shade lighter._

"_Yes, I have," the mother answered, watching the child's frustration at being ignored in the corner of her eye._

"_I don't know why he likes it," He said, trailing off, "It has a child dieing in it; it's so **morbid**!"_

"_It's a poison to our child's mind," she said, agreeing. They were oblivious to the child sneaking to his father's side, stealthily taking his gun._

"_A poison lullaby."_

_While they were discussing the gruesome lyrics, Erol, still ignored, walked out of the room, weapon in hand. Going into the living room, he sat down on the worn out couch, gun inspected professionally. Slipping his hand into the proper position, he loosely held the gun so that it was ready to fire. _

_But…what would happen? Would it shoot a hole in the wall? Or maybe just a net, like the pointless cartoons mother made him watch? _

_And if he shot himself, would he **bleed**?_

_It happened before; blood dripping down from a scratch upon his arm, cat being the culprit. Of course, he had retaliated, quickly getting a stone and bashing the cat upon its head until a skull was showing and pink oozing, and strangely enough, blood pooling around its head. What was strange, however, was the fact that the blood from that **menace** was the exact same color as his, both crimsons mingling upon the pitiful ally that was the Slums._

_And though Erol was deathly curious, he had no intentions to shoot himself, remembering the pain that he had suffered because of a mere scratch. But…_

_But what would happen if he shot **someone else**? Would they bleed? Would they bleed the same scarlet as he? _

_And what would be their reaction? Would they take their revenge quickly, or would they simply live with it? Because even though Erol was practically **dieing **to know the answer to his questions, he didn't want to end up like that mongrel of an animal…maybe, oh maybe he could shoot something that, no matter what, will never **ever **hurt him._

_Someone…_

"_Erol, sweetie? It's time for bed."_

_Someone like mother._

'_Mother, oh mother,' he mentally chimed, 'do you want to help me with an experiment? I promise it will be painful…'_

_Already he felt, well, giddy, (for lack of a better word) from the excitement that was sure to come. Would the blood spurt out upon his face? Would father try to **kill **him? Would father horribly, **wondrously** despise him for the deed he will do?_

_And most importantly, will something **else** come out? Already he was imagining the entrails pouring out of her stomach and the veins visible from the place where her heart should be. The cuts, the holes; and the blood that would **gush** out of them! _

_So, Erol was terribly, terribly excited, and thus, he really wanted to do this experiment._

_Erol always gets what he wants.

* * *

From the twisted mind of theinsane, whom wishes for reviews._


	5. Death

So, I redid it. Because the original wasn't fleshed out enough. Just a few sentences. Boring. So here's Death 2.0. Now with more gore!

Death

Summary: Today, Erol is alive. Today, Erol sinned. Tomorrow, Erol isn't dead. But he isn't quite alive, either.

* * *

_They said that when death stared you in the face, a sight so horrible and awe-inspiring; yet you wouldn't know it until it was too late. The End of Life would stand on the sidelines, and grin his bony grin, beckoning. And yet, you wouldn't know that he came for you. But still, he is smiling, and in the face of the happy memories—and the sad ones—you know that no matter what you accomplished, what you changed, who you destroyed, who you ruined—it's the end. _

_Some said that Death knocked on your door, and it is only human nature to do whatever you can to avoid answering the call. But he would wait. If you should walk out of your house unaware, or left any crack, window or doorway, you would end. He is very patient, being here since eternity began and will remain so until everything simply isn't. And if you waste your life, in fear and dreading and hate, who is he to refuse a good laugh? And who wouldn't come see the man too scared to answer the door, in fear of ending? And what an attraction it would be, for the End would be the one selling the tickets for the show of your misery!_

_Some say that when you died, __you would be judged for the sins you have committed, and the virtues you held. But the End would smile, bones cracking in his jaw, and he would comfort your sins, count your virtues. And it wouldn't matter._

Today, Erol spotted death. It leered at him, bones in it's jaw stretching and popping, hopeful hollows carefully watching him. But, Erol does not fear it. The supernatural entity comes to all of his races, only to walk into the curved ring—where so many corpses have been—to collect his prizes. The race starts. One by one, sharp turns, a blond and a rat, their own foolishness, and Erol himself pick off the racers. And it sits there, crowd cheering around him, screaming in the excitement, not moving as the other racers die in their mangled screams of metal and fire.

When he reaches his last lap, it clicks. The blond is facing him, blue haughty and gloating as they rolled, anger tensing muscles and amusement flickering at scowling lips. And he turns away, dismissing smirk on his lips as he disregards Erol so bluntly. It… makes him mad. Angry, even. More furious, actually, a fire burning through his veins and consuming the oxygen in his now-light head. Because, for once in Erol's life, someone has bested him. He can't think straight. He finds his feet on the pedal, and then, stops, hands fingering the metal plated handles of the zoomer. Common sense momentarily quells the molten liquid in his blood. The crowd roars, cheers. A skull sits upon it's throne, grinning.

Erol races toward the winner, promise of vengeance singing in his elongated ears. The crowd's thoughtless, killing plaudits, goes silent, wind echoing and engine roaring. Someone, regaining their ever-so-ruining voice, cries, "Look out!" And everything slows to a stop, a bony hand reaching out to him. He looks behind the ending deity, and sees a war-hardened blond that has already jumped out of the way, sky-blues narrowed and expecting, chest unmoving and tense, as if he is already frozen in his demise.

Erol turns to the being before him. Up close, he can see bleeding strips of flesh and skin hanging off its skeleton. It's fingers curve in, cracks spiraling from the hinges. An invitation, Erol knows. One that would be enforced, he bitterly acknowledges.

Time unfreezes. Erol continues going straight, because his pride and vanity doesn't allow him to bow to anyone, let alone something as ugly and rotting and powerful as death.

He much prefers to burst in a fiery ball of flames, mutely screaming as the torture he has inflicted with so careless a smile comes upon him sevenfold. His blood boils, spilling out of gaps of flesh so bluntly melted off of their chalky calcium. He begins to lose more blood. He is sprawled across the dark eco, fiendish liquid devouring the less lucky side of his person. The pain is searing, tearing at the unnatural holes in his flesh much like the waves of oceans long past; and then coming back for seconds, appetite forever hungry, never quenched at the gluttonous consummation of the ever-rare human flesh.

_They say you always get a second chance._

_Erol wasted his._

* * *

_From the twsited mind of theinsane, whom wishes for reviews._


End file.
